


pink is the color (of my true love's fur)

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Bodyswap, Copious amounts of pet names, M/M, Noirham - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Two old saps in love, hamnoir - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:06:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After an incident with a certain (cartoon) octopus from Porker's dimension, Ham and Noir find themselves in one another's bodies (feat. Noir learning a thing or two about colors and what it means to be in love and to be loved and Ham being his adorable, slightly chaotic self).





	pink is the color (of my true love's fur)

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I watched Spider-verse in theaters, and came home to fall hard and fast for a crack ship within the span of three days.
> 
> It's been a while since I've had the motivation to write (much less write a full-blown fanfic such as this), so what better way to get the ol' juices flowing again than with a bit of fluff? I'd mentioned the idea on my blog and, since it was seemingly well-received, I decided to do it. Hopefully you all like the end product as much as I do because I had a blast writing it, and with that, friends, I present to you this wild ride of a story. Also, bonus points for anyone who gets what the title is referencing (hint: it's a song, and one could say the actual name of the song is something Ham might conceivably sing to Noir).

Vaguely, he recalled a snippet of conversation from months prior, an explanation from Ham about pink and it’s not-red, lighter-than-red,  _it’s not red, not red, remember that it’s called pink_  hue: Pink was oftentimes the color of bubblegum (sticky and sweet) or several varieties of flowers (roses and peonies and tulips just to name a few, garden-variety blooms) or a scoop of strawberry ice cream atop an ice cream sundae (he’d furrowed his brows at this because he’d thought strawberries were red, weren’t they?), or the color of Ham’s tufts of fur or, and he’d paused at this as he stared at Noir, pink is associated with love by many people.

_Love?_  He remembered quipping, idly toying with the cube held in his grasp.

_Yeah, love._  The pig had responded quietly, his gaze still locked on Noir.

— 

Noir thought about love, was thinking about love, as he laid atop, well,  _his_  chest, the chest of the body that belonged to him that he wasn’t currently occupying.

He’d been sure (or perhaps had foolishly believed) that he’d seen and experienced what would most likely be the wildest, weirdest encounter of his life after what had been dubbed “the collider incident” by him and his fellow spiders, but then followed a stint in Ham’s dimension several months later trying to chase down—of all things—a cartoon octopus, and one thing had led to another and, after a blinding light that seemed to sear his flesh and tear at his unraveling mind and a moment of hesitance, of confusion, there was panic, a heaviness, a roundness, a softness to his form that hadn’t been there before, a feeling of being terribly, woefully tiny, shrunken but not, disoriented, lightheaded, vulnerable, exposed, unprotected and then  _God_ , the hues, the tints, the colors, _these colors_ , that raced across his new vision, his new eyes, nearly blinding him again with their intensity and unexpectedness and almost causing him to fall flat on his rump.

But instead of falling backwards, he’d tripped (a trip, much to his surprise and then to his dismay, that was accompanied by a loud crashing sound effect) over something sprawled across the ground, grey and white and black and so painfully familiar to him that if it hadn’t been for the nasty shock of it all and his hare-brain going a mile a minute, words and images and  _those colors_  flitting in each and every direction like the unpredictable nature of gunfire whizzing about, then maybe he would’ve put two-and-two together sooner and come to the conclusion that he was in Ham’s body and that Ham was in his, a literal swap of the minds, spider to spider, monochromatic, non-cartoon man to colorful cartoon pig and vice versa. He could scarcely believe it, but the proof of the pudding was there in front of him, unconscious, goggles askew on his face.

It wasn’t a dream, hadn’t been a dream, but it was still a shock, a terrible shock indeed, to him, to Ham, hell, to everyone really, a shock that they were both going to have to come to terms with for the time being while they and the rest of their spider family worked to track down the rogue octopus in order to put things back into place.

_Pig body, spider family, rogue octopus…what a screwy world it was for a fella like him._

Without warning, Noir was roused from his musings when something brushed against his (Ham’s, not his) ear, tracing it lightly before twirling it around between gentle, deft fingers, fingers on hands that would normally be concealed beneath a pair of leather gloves in other, more dire circumstances, or simply to hide the scars from probing eyes, the faded ones and the ones where the skin hadn’t mended properly and left nasty gashes in their wake that he’d rather not speak of.

As much as he hated to admit it, it took almost every ounce of his willpower not to sigh, lean into the touch, and maybe even curl in closer to Ham’s—his—hand. A chuckle sounded from somewhere overhead, low and gravelly, his own voice emanating from his own body and, setting his mouth into a slight frown, he popped open an eye to drink in his own unmasked face smirking at him, mirth apparent in the quirked lips and the dark, deep-set, sleep-deprived, heavily-bagged eyes.

“Did’ja like that?” The tone was light, casual, higher-pitched than normal. Ham was holding back a laugh.

“Can’t say it was the gnat’s whistle.” He had, in truth, liked it, and liked it a lot, but admitting that would be admitting to the fact that that goddamn pig had him wrapped around his little finger, no, his little…hoof? Yes, the appendages were hooves, heart-shaped, small to him (adorably so he might add in his more private moments) in his normal state but annoyingly proportional at the moment. He scrunched up his snout, huffing. Being small didn’t suit him (no matter how nice it felt to be held in an all-enveloping embrace like the one he was in now) because being small in a world like his simply didn’t do, and the change in weight and mass and the dizziness that accompanied such alterations hadn’t helped the situation in the slightest, only managing to amplify his discomfort. In fact, it was all still rather bewildering but, like with everything else life had carelessly and cruelly thrown his way, he felt he was coping as best as he could.

_Confront, try to cope, and move on._

“You’re a bad liar.” Ham smiled before repeating the motion, gentler, softer, fingers barely skirting along the edge of his fuzzy, droopy, pleasantly pink ear, a mere whisper, nothing more, nothing less, a whisper like the faintest brush of satin against bare skin, of exotic silks, the trace of a lover’s velveteen touch—

Noir shuddered, his guts (also pink he’d been told) clenching, cheeks noticeably warming. Another bark of laughter erupted and he could feel his blush grow hotter.

“Aw, I  _knew_ you’d like it! I like when you play around with my ears, so I thought I’d repay the favor.” He unleashed another snort as Noir grumbled something unintelligible, face smooshing into a pair of (shapely, well-defined, strong, Ham was positive the list could go on and on if he thought about it long and hard enough) pectorals just as the pig-turned-man brought up his free hand to stroke the other’s fur in small, cyclic, lazy semi-circles while the other hand remained gingerly but firmly secured on Noir’s back so as to keep him close, close to the subtle rise and fall of his chest, close to his fluttering heart.

Ham exhaled slowly, deeply, and closed his eyes, utter blackness engulfing an already drab, dreary worldview, a worldview stripped of color. How Noir could stand existing in his day-to-day life with such acute lack of pigment he still couldn’t fathom, but then again, he’d never known any different until recently, so he supposed it made sense. Can’t miss something you couldn’t actually process.

A few minutes ticked past in silence as the two sat there enjoying one another’s company (or at least he was enjoying Noir’s company—he really hoped, in retrospect, that that little stunt he’d just pulled hadn’t taken things too far too fast). Sudden uneasiness pooling in his chest cavity, he coughed, eyeing the, er, pig.

“Hey, hon, you still awake?”

“Yes. Why’re you asking, Porker?”

“What are you thinking about?”

Noir paused, contemplating his question. It was something he appreciated about this man,  _his_  man, this ability to restrain himself, to really mull an inquiry over before selecting and deciding upon a suitable answer. Ham was more impatient than him, quicker with his words and his thoughts, tongue lashing out whenever and wherever possible, but he kept his mouth snapped shut, waiting, watching.

“Red looks good on you, you know.”

Okay, so  _maybe_ that mouth of his had a mind of its own.

“Does it now?”

“I think so, and I’d say I’m _kiiinda_ an expert on these things.”

“Ever the flatterer, aren’t you, doll?”

“Ohoho,  _doll_ , is it? Well, I  _try_  to be, Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

“Not so dark and  _definitely_  not so tall right now.”

“But still very, _very_ handsome, an all-around porcine Casanova.”

“Bushwa, don’t think I’ve ever been much of a looker.”

Ham spluttered, his grip on Noir tightening. “Well, _that’s_  a crock of horseshit if I’ve ever heard it, and you can believe me on that because I know a thing or two about horseshit!” He winked, and beamed as the corners of Noir’s mouth upturned into a lopsided grin at the declaration. “Horses and hospitals, darling, you should never mix the two.” He breathed in at the memory of it, shaking his head.  _President Trot, that no-good, low-down fiend, going for the baby incubators—the baby incubators!—and no one had had the audacity to stop him?! Why—_

“So you wanted to know what I was thinkin’ about, didn’t you, or were you just beatin’ your gums?”

Yanked from his own reverie, Ham started at the abruptness of the question and, if he’d still had ears that could do so, they’d have been standing on end, perked up in rapt attention. “No, no, I wasn’t! I really do want to know! If…If that’s okay.” He added sheepishly, gaze flicking down to meet a set of steely eyes in a somewhat doughy face.

Thankfully, Noir’s eyes softened as he smiled. “’Course it is, sugar-pie.”

Careful so as not to disrupt the fragile nature of the flimsy hammock they were currently resting in nor the inherent coziness of the position that they had assumed, Noir scooched up higher onto Ham’s chest, stubby legs kicking aimlessly as he attempted to gain some form of traction on the latter’s stomach, finally managing to nestle in with a satisfied oink, a sound he’d vehemently deny having made if questioned about it later. Curly tail twitching, wagging once, twice, something else he’d claim did  _not_ happen, he rolled over on his side, sighing.

Ham hummed, pressing a tender kiss atop his significant other’s head, relishing in the happy sigh that Noir exhaled as he snuggled in closer, tucking himself under Ham’s chin, the perfect fit, the perfect spot, a place of solace.

“What’s on your mind, babe?”

“Colors. And, well, you, but mostly colors.”

“Colors, huh?”  _That_ caught him by surprise, but should it have?

“Mhm.”

“How’re you liking them so far? Are they ticklin’ your fancy much?”

“I think they’re real beauts, unlike anything I’ve seen before, and I’m a bit sad about not having had the chance to see them until now.” He paused. “Really see them I mean.” Another beat of silence. “And I keep thinkin’ about something else with them, too.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“D’you remember that talk we had about colors the first time we met up here in this dimension?”

“Ab-so-tootin’-lute-ly! Why wouldn’t I? I mean, after the whole thing with the painting, I was pretty s—”

“Remember what you said about pink, about it being like chewing gum and flowers and your fur,” he smoothed down the wisp of hair on his head knowing full well that it would spring back into place once he moved his hoof because it  _always_  did so no matter  _how_  many times Ham tried to tame it, “and about love?”

“…Yeah, I actually think I do.” Ham responded faintly, hand absentmindedly fiddling with the pig’s ear again. “What’s got you thinking about that? Just curious.”

“Promise not to laugh too much at an old fool like me?”

“I would  _never_! What kind of a pig…man…what kind of  _spider_  do you think I am?!”

Noir chuckled at the look of complete and utter exasperation on his beloved’s face before adopting a more speculative expression, mouth opening, closing, and opening again. “I think…I think I didn’t really understand what you meant by that until now.” He stalled, struggling, searching for his next words, the right words to express how he felt, what he was feeling. Having repressed his emotions so deeply for so long, too long, Noir knew he wasn’t well-versed in this sort of stuff, and that personal weakness of his was, unfortunately, shining through in a manner that was painfully obvious to him and probably to Porker as well. 

He tried again, eyes dipping down to avoid looking at his counterpart, at himself. “I felt love for…for you, and for the others, I still do, I know I always will, I’ve known that since before I left for the first time after that business with the collider gizmo thingy, but to associate it with a color just wasn’t…realistic for me, but now it is. I don’t…I can’t…what I’m trying to say is that being with you, Peter, the kids, it’s opened my eyes to other possibilities, other kinds of love that I hadn’t considered before, or had considered but couldn’t… _wouldn’t_  act on, and I love it, I love feeling, I love colors, and I love being with you. I love  _you_ , and I know…I know when the time comes for us to switch back, um, switch bodies I mean, I’ll still carry that love with me, and I’ll be able to carry it as the color pink thanks to you. You’re the cat’s pyjamas, and I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

A wet sniffle caused him to immediately snap to attention, eyes widening cartoonishly (cartoon, cartoonishly, the irony of it wasn’t lost on him) as he took in the budding tears welling up in the corners of Ham’s eyes, already cascading down his cheeks in tiny rivulets, minuscule streams moving and snaking down his uncovered neck. He blinked, caught off-guard, thoughts swimming haphazardly.  _Shit, he’d said something wrong, that had to be it, what else could there be? When was the last time he’d cried, the last time his body had cried? Was it worse that he couldn’t remember, or that he hadn’t cried despite the atrocities he’d borne witness to, the cold acts of a killer he had committed? It was justified, he could justify what he did to keep his New York as safe as he could possibly make it, but sometimes innocent people got caught in the crossfire of him and the scum of the Earth, the Nazis, the gangs, every rotten—_

Noir shook his head, clearing away the thoughts.  _No, be present, don’t dwell._

Luckily, Ham’s voice broke through the black cloud threatening to swallow him whole.

“Peter, that was…”

“Too much?” It hadn’t been lost on him that Ham had used his name, their name, the name they didn’t often utter in this dimension so as not to confuse one another.

Large, calloused, trembling hands ghosted over little, glossy, stilled ones.

“That was beautiful.”

Caressing the sides of Noir’s face, Ham leaned forward, planting a smooch on the pig’s snout.

“I’m glad you told me, sweet cheeks.”

“I’m glad you liked it, dearest.”

“Also, not to break up a sappy moment here, but I need to, um, real quick—” He stopped mid-sentence, mouth drawing momentarily into a hard line before he resumed his train of thought. “Wait, that’s right, it wouldn’t be in  _this_  pocket, would it? Keep forgetting that. D’you mind if I check, er, my other pocket? Your pocket?”

“Uh, sure? What’re you—”

Before he could really get a good sense of what was happening, things were already flying through the air, arcing and looping and crashing to the ground below with highly exaggerated noises to accompany their fateful plummet as Ham rifled through his pocket, tongue stuck out in concentration. How curiously easy, confoundingly simple it was for it to slip Noir’s mind that Ham was a cartoon, and with that came reasoning and logic and rhyme that he could rarely grasp let alone understand. He watched as a rubber ducky sailed, a hot dog (one that seemed surprisingly fresh despite being cooped up in his chasm of a pocket) wheeled, and an old armoire that sounded like it still had items stashed away in it soared before his partner produced an impressively, improbably long handkerchief checkered in rows of greens, yellows, purples and, Noir noticed with a smirk, pinks. 

“Aha, there it is!” With that, Ham blew his nose with a deafening honk, sniffed a few times, and then turned to Noir with a toothy grin, eyes alight, playful and teasing. 

“By the way, are you aware of this?” There it was, that barely-suppressed giggle again.

“Aware of what?” Noir asked warily. 

Gently tilting his chin up with a snicker, Noir found himself gasping, gaping at the cartoon hearts drifting up lackadaisically above him, pumping and thrumming and popping with a bouncy tremor as if happy to go, a seemingly perpetual sequence of palpitating, vibrant red.

“Red’s a love color, too?” Noir murmured, a futile attempt to mask his embarrassment.

“Yeah, it is.” Ham mumbled back, a cheeky smile still lingering on his features.

“Good to know.”

_Pink, red, perhaps any shade could be viewed as a color of love in the right company, and maybe it simply took the love of a cartoon pig to realize that._


End file.
